rude haiku

Fuck you. Fuck me too.
And an argument ensues.
We fight, but who wins?

Resigning from Science Fiction Book Club

Dear Sirs,

Please cancel my membership, member number XXXXXX.

While I do not believe I am required to give you a reason for the cancelation and you may not care whether there is a reason or not, I will let you know why: Rome Quezada's most recent editorial comments in the club flyer.

I do not ask that everyone, or indeed anyone, agree with or even respect my political views, but when I find myself and my beliefs actively mocked by the representative of a company which then expects me to give them my hard-earned dollars, I will make a decision to spend that money elsewhere. Rome Quezada's smug assumption that everyone in his audience shares his adoration for Obama is wrong. His snarky observation that the end of the Bush presidency marks an "Escape from Hell" insults millions of voters, me among them.

Rome Quezada is free to hold whatever political views he wishes. He is free to express those views however and wherever he wishes as well. But by doing so, he has quite deliberately insulted and belittled those members of the book club who do not share his views. Why he chose to express himself in this manner is a mystery, but it should be no mystery to you why I am choosing to end a long association with the club. I will not spend my money with a company that allows this type of unwarranted mean-spirited screed to be presented so inappropriately.

I voted in November, and I am voting again now by taking my business elsewhere. Please cancel my membership.

Sincerely,

XXXXXX

My back seized up

My back seized up,
locking into place like a fold-up dime store ruler,
all angles and joints made to move,
but made in China, made cheap,
all cracked plastic and inferior alloys,
that work for a while, doomed to die.

Coffee talk

Coke was "the pause that refreshes."
Our pause sustains and explores,
building like birds a nest of shared moments.
We walk in. We order. He pours.

One hot, one cold, punch the card,
such a small price to open a door.
Heft of cup, bitter but sweet,
it's only coffee talk, but it's more.

I am Superman, Einstein, and Johnson,
by turns laughing or silent in thought,
amazed at my perfect good fortune.
You teach and I'm happily taught,

or maybe I show you a difference,
or point out some lines in a book,
and deepen our sense of wonder
at the paths that each of us took.

Another sip brings up the movies,
those captive slices of life.
We both love the real ones
that stab the heart like a knife.

But too soon my cup comes up empty,
and then to our watches we peek,
and coffee time's over, but take heart;
we'll do it again in a week.

Liftoff

(Note: I wrote this long before the shuttle disaster and don't want to change the name of the shuttle in the piece now)
-------------------------------------


Columbia rears up straining on the pad
a forty story phallus leaking lox,
steaming and streaming in the flat Florida sunshine

we two are nestled all snug in our seats
the drone of launch control tinny in our ears
waiting, just waiting

are we really the first ones to conceive such a plan?
surely the Russians were here years before
women and men in space together

but they were bound into suits
huge, voluminous sacks
more effective than a chastity belt
we fly in jumpsuits

jumpsuits with dozens of velcro tabs
I get warm every time I hear that static RIPPPPPPP!
like tearing loose a painless skin
little hooks and loops screaming in protest

and the count is steady
building towards that well rehearsed climax
where we'll leap off the platform
riding the roar

and in anticipation of that surge
I'm already loose
swarming across to straddle you
we wait
let it build
and now HERE comes your thrust
and Columbia obliges with hers
forcing you deeper
the scream torn from my throat and left behind
we're pressed together by five gees at least

until at apogee
I float free
no touch mars the shudder

Firewood

Heft and bite of ax,
thock and crack and split of oak,
my hands in their gloves
make a sliding sound on a hickory handle.

The pile grows, spilling down on itself,
firewood - my labor of love
cut and split and stacked
in preparation for fires I'll never feel.

I remember flame kissed skin,
the smoke scent in your hair
and warmth, always warmth,
deep under blankets baked by loving.

Standing in the cold, I shatter another log,
smash deep along the grain
and bury the head of my ax in the ground
pause, then bend and lift again.

And I leave a little bit of me
in each separate piece of firewood,
my gift of flame,
burnt to ash by morning, but still smoldering.

come climb my tree

Come climb my tree with me.
Shed your shoes;
leap and catch hold.

This old anchor of oak,
granddaddy urged upwards when he was a boy
though he never swam through its branches.

Let's clutch, claw, and climb
trunk, limb and leaf
insinuating ourselves into its arms
like climbing into the lap of a lover.

Hide with me here at the top,
arms looped loosely over one big branch
- and each other.

We maintain only a tenuous connection to the ground,
closer to ourselves than to the rest of the low world underneath.

Pretend to touch the sky
reach your hand up and out
brushing clouds back like kittens.

Come climb my tree with me
and we'll go high enough, I think, to touch dreams.